


sweater weather

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction, Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Major character death - Freeform, lack of grammar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fill for a prompt from the angst meme (again)<br/>harry/nick, i don't really blame you for being dead but you can't have your sweater back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweater weather

**Author's Note:**

> sorry that i suck, i'm just in the mood.

harry sits outside of the mortuary. he couldn't go inside, couldn't see him like that. pale and quiet, nothing like what he really was. the morticians try to make them look like they did when they were still alive, but it's impossible. how could you recreate someone as lively and wonderful and loud and beautiful as him?

_you can't._

harry runs his fingers over the soft fabric in his hand, counting the stitches over and over again. he wishes that he could pull strands of him apart and stitch himself into the sweater, maybe he could've felt what it was like to be pressed against his body like that. he doesn't know how long he's been out there, counting the stitches in nick's sweater. the funeral ended a few hours ago, he thinks. he's still not ready to go inside. but someone from nick's family comes out and says they're going to bury him soon. so he goes inside.

one thing that makes him mad is the fact that they're putting him in the ground. nick would hate it. he hated staying still, was never still, even when he was doing the radio. he would jump around to everyone's mics, sometimes sitting on their laps. he would always call harry and ask to go for a walk. "my legs aren't used to this not moving" would be his reasoning. harry would always go.

he thinks that nick would much more appreciate it if he was cremated, and his ashes taken out on a cool day and thrown into the breeze. that way he could always be moving, dancing along the coastline and soaring high above everyone's heads. he could even go for walks with harry again when the weather got warmer.

harry walks up and sits in the first row of seats, nick's casket was closed already. he thanks whatever god there is for that, didn't want to see those eyes permanently shut, didn't want to see his hands resting on his stomach like some awkward sleeper. he closes his eyes, he promised himself he wouldn't cry. it wasn't like him and nick were anything other than friends. (they weren't, really. they had kissed a few times before, one time after one of their walks. nick had invited harry inside and harry had said yes, it was chilly and he could use a rest before he walked home. nick made coffee and they watched movies. harry turned and well he couldn't really resist, pressing his lips to nick's like he had any right to.)

once he got himself under control he spoke. "hi," he said quietly. he felt stupid, talking to nothing. nick wasn't really there, of course--couldn't possibly listen to him. "i know i'm late, but i didn't want to look at you. not like.. i mean i didn't want to see you. like you know, dead." harry sighed. he couldn't even talk right in the afterlife. (as if he was dead too. but he supposes he is, maybe. because when he got the news of the accident he swears that's when his heart stopped beating. only no one will know except him and maybe nick, since harry died right next to him in that car that night.) "anyway. i brought your sweater. you told me i couldn't keep it. but, i mean i really like it. still smells like you…. it's not like you're going to miss it anymore."

harry thinks maybe he should've came in earlier. maybe he should've looked at what they did to nick; he wants to see if they did his hair up in that ridiculous quiff he always had. "i don't really blame you for being dead, but you can't have your sweater back. i've just decided this. i'm going to keep it. i hope you're shaking your fist at me from wherever you are." he smiles softly, looking down at the muted cream color of the sweater. it was warm and ridiculously huge, even on nick, but they had both loved it the second they set eyes on it. obviously nick had ended up with it, but harry had it now. it was meant to be, he thought sadly; wonders if he and nick were meant to be.

maybe they were. after a few more midday walks they would end up professing their profound likeness. (not love because nick didn't do love. he fucked people. whether he fucked them over or just repeatedly depended on what his mood was that week. harry would've taken either.)

but maybe they weren't. because nick wouldn't be dead if he was supposed to be on his oversized couch making out with harry, would he?

harry sighs. why did nick have to be dead? why couldn't he have stuck around a little longer, just so harry could see what they could've been. instead he's sitting in a sad, dank room, wondering about their few kisses and if they could've had more kisses. he's holding onto a sweater that nick should be nagging him about. _"when are you going to give it back, popstar?"_ he's holding onto the last memory he has of nick, laughing and dancing drunkenly in the back of a truck at a party. he's thinks that maybe if he would've just asked nick to stay with him, maybe they would still be curled up at home. maybe they would be drinking hot chocolate or tea or anything other than this cocktail of sadness that harry's drowning in.

he gets up and puts a hand over nick's closed casket, the sweater dragging onto the floor. "i would bury it with you, but then such a wonderful sweater would've gone to waste," he said quietly. "i know you'll understand." harry turns around and makes his way out of the morgue, holding the sweater close to his chest. he wills the tears brimming his eyes not to fall down his cheeks. nick wouldn't want him to cry, but harry's always been the sensitive one. _"celebrate my life, don't mourn my death."_ but how can he celebrate when the party ended so quickly? he showed up so late, he didn't have enough drinks. the only party harry's going to be attending is a pity party, for the sad and lonely sweater that never really had an owner. a pity party for their short-lived relationship, limp and horribly put together, a few stitches of summer walks and sloppy kisses by the fire.

he puts the sweater in the passenger seat of his car and fastens the seatbelt over it, as if giving nick a second chance. he could recreate that night and stop time for a moment, he could bring him back. how do you save someone who's already paid for their mistakes?

_you don't._


End file.
